


choose

by graffitismoak



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluffy I guess, LoT 2.16, basically my interpretation of what felicity finds in the afterlife, kinda emotional, oliver still has self doubt issues in the afterlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 12:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graffitismoak/pseuds/graffitismoak
Summary: I'm a couple hours late to the party, but I figured I'd give my interpretation of what Felicity finds in the Afterlife. Based on episode 2.16 of Legends of Tomorrow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, if you have not watched the episode, that this is a Felicity from an alternate universe where she's the last hero standing (everyone else has died). I haven't gotten the chance to watch the episode yet, so if anything isn't canon or doesn't make sense, please comment so I can alter it. Have fun!

There's no pain when she wakes up; no blinding lights or ringing ears. She wakes up the same way she does every day. 

The scents wafting through the room smell the same; coffee, pancakes, the body wash he uses, the distinct aroma of shower water still thick in the air.

It feels a little different this time, almost like the days she'd lived years ago. There's no pain anymore. It feels alien now, to wake up without the dread gripping at her chest. 

Familiarity hits her in waves, as it starts to feel more and more like the mornings where she'd wake up and she'd feel him shift beside her, or the ones where she'd open her eyes and he'd already be looking at her ( _"What are you doing?" She'd whispered the first morning. He didn't reply for a minute, but when he did – "Do you ever want to stay in one moment for the rest of your life?" – she'd climbed onto his lap and let him count her freckles one by one, over and over, until he got a headache. He'd told her that he didn't mind the math if it meant he'd get to count them every morning for the rest of his life_ ). 

Her eyes flicker open to a faint sound coming from downstairs. She knows where she is; the loft. Except she'd moved to the bunker the night she was finally left alone in the world. She doesn't fully understand what's happening, but she doesn't feel confused either. It's as if she knows exactly where to go and exactly what's awaiting her, but her brain shutters every time she tries to picture it. 

So, she lifts herself from their bed and walks slowly to the staircase. She catches her own eye in the mirror in the hallway and takes a deep breath. She's wearing one of his shirts, her favourite brown long-sleeve one, worn and threadbare, and her hair is as blonde as the day she'd held his paling body in her arms for the last time ( _"Honey, look at me," he croaked, "I'll always find you," tears leaking from his eyes. "You know I'll always find you"_ ). It feels like she's finally looking into her own eyes again, no longer seeing a deep chocolate brown, ( _lying_ ) begging her to– " _Felicity, get out, I'll be fine_ ", or his deep blue, a contrast to the blood dripping from his mouth. Once a week had passed and she still hadn't stopped seeing flecks of his blood, long after she'd washed it out, she'd dyed her hair back to the black from her college days. 

She only notices him when her feet hit the bottom step of the stairs, like he had manifested at her thoughts. Light streams through the big windows and food crackles in the pans on the stove. She doesn't feel shock as her eyes roam his back, not like she knows she should. It feels right having him here. It always felt right seeing him in their home, but from the day she'd started walking again to the day he died ( _"I forgive you. I forgive you. I love you. I forgive you," she'd repeated until long after his hands went limp. She'd laid there for hours in a dirty alley telling him something she'd been too scared to the day before_ ) it was too dangerous a thought. 

She knows where she is; some post-death subconscious maybe. Scientifically it's more believable than Heaven, despite her Jewish heritage. She knows it can't be real, not like this. Not with him standing in the same sweatpants she wore every night (his clothes were the only part of him she'd kept, even repurposing his hood and dying it a deep purple). She knows it's not real, because the first time she'd washed the smell of him off of them she'd cried so hard her throat ached for days. A memory flickers passed her eyelids at that; her, kneeling in front of the cot, head buried in the sheets he'd slept on, screaming, sobbing, a gun inches from her fingers. Her breath stutters in relief; relief that he never has to know what she looks like taking her own life. 

She walks up behind him, hands drifting up his sides, pressing her fingers into the silky, scarless skin, her nose rubbing into the middle of his back. A part of her mourns the loss of the mottled skin she used to run her fingers over, but another part silently thanks God that he doesn't have to hold the burden of those scars; not here, not anymore.

She wraps her arms around his torso, her hands caressing his stomach as he lets out a sigh. She can almost feel his smile, the smile he reserves for her. 

When he finally turns in her arms she lets out a quiet gasp, her hands slowly coming up to grab his cheeks, almost expecting to see them battered and bruised, like the last memory she has of him. His face looks exactly the same, but, even then, it's entirely different. He looks the way that she'd always imagined he would. The lines drawn so deep into his forehead are nonexistent, the hard look he wore for everyone but her is gone, replaced with a little smile and bright eyes. The only time she'd seen him anything close to like this were on his good nights, when he'd sleep nightmare-less, and she could see the ghost of the man he could've been; the man he tried to be for her. 

Her hands stroke down across his collarbone, tracing scars that are no longer there, and his hands lift to her cheeks, paralleling all the times he'd held her in his arms, and all the times she'd held him in hers. 

His forehead comes down to rest on hers, his height causing her to curve her body into his, and he lets his eyes flutter.

"You're _home_ ," he whispers, voice barely holding. "I've been waiting so long to watch you come down those stairs again," he pauses, breathing her in. "You did so well, my love."

"Oliver," she releases a choked, dry sob against his cheek, hands shaking against his chest, "everyone else–"

"Is here," he says, moving his head away, but only slightly. "We've been waiting for you. We were with you every second," he speaks softly, almost like he's trying not to overwhelm her. 

"You did so well," he repeats. 

"I'm home," she smiles, tears falling freely down her cheeks now. 

His smile matches hers, but it falls into a softer one with his next words: "Thank you for choosing me."

At her perplexed look, he tilts his head, still smiling.

"We all choose where we wake up, where we spend eternity. You _chose_ me. You found me, Felicity." 

He still says her name like a prayer, but it's almost as if he hasn't allowed himself to say it aloud until now. 

She stands still for a moment, looking into his eyes, and her smile softens to match his, because it's almost funny that even in the afterlife his eyes can still hold so much self-doubt. 

"Oh, _Oliver_ ," she presses her lips softly against his, relishing in the calming press that's so familiar yet so entirely new, "I'll always find you."

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! reviews are always nice.


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